Tickled to launch the second in my romantic suspense series, CARRIED AWAY, at EC, I'm offering you a taste today.
This book debuts June 2 and I am delighted to take you on a mad search through the divinely romantic and dangerous cities of Venice, Paris, Jerusalem and Naples!
The setting: Grant Warwick, security expert and owner of a huge company that protects the best and brightest, is about to sign a contract with a sheik when he realizes the one who set it up was Coco Dalton, the one woman who fascinated him and then left him flat three years ago. No explanations given.
When she tells him why, you want to be around.
Here's a nibble:
Grant caught her upper arms. “I’m going to say this. And I don’t want any arguments.”
“Okay.” She sounded tentative.
“That connecting door stays open tonight. No locks, no privacy.”
Being harsh was definitely not the way he meant to end the night. A man could always hope to get lucky, right? But the cat suit she owned made him wary. “Sleep tight,” he said, trying for some of the congeniality they’d built over dinner.
He turned on his heel and left her standing alone by the window.
He didn’t look back. If he did, he’d sweep her up and carry her to his bed. There, within arms’ reach, he could ensure safety for her. But he couldn’t save her from herself, could he?
He undressed and out of frustration, threw himself into a freezing cold shower. It didn’t calm his mood or his erection. So, naked, he went into his sitting room, paced, stood at the window for god-knew-how-long and watched the moon travel the sky. Running his hands over his head, he decided to move the chaise longue to angle toward the window, the view of the black velvet night and what he could see of her suite. Then he parked himself in the thing, hoping he’d wear himself out.
But he began to hear sounds from her room. She shuffled things. Left her light on for a while. Reading, maybe. She got a drink out of the mini-bar and he could hear her fiddle with the bottle and the glass. Then she went into her bedroom. After a half hour or so, he heard her click on a lamp and he could see rays dapple the carpet. Once more, she got up, this time to get a drink of water in the bathroom. She padded back to bed.
Yeah, babe. Hard to sleep, isn’t it, when there is so much more to say?
He sat, reclined in the chair, one hand over his mouth, eyes glued to her room near the window. He waited. That’s one thing he was so good at.
She came into sight as she drifted toward the window. Dressed in a floor length gown of some clingy stuff, she leaned on the credenza in front of the window. Her nipples were poking the fabric, her tortured face lit by moonlight, her eyes closed. Forgetting what we had? Remembering?
Steady, Warwick. It may be only her secrets that she thinks of. Not you. Why you?
She moaned and faced their door.
He dared not breathe.
Then she walked forward. On cat’s feet, she came to the doorway, paused and there in the silvery light, her gaze found his.
He let her look her fill. God knew, he was riveted to the chair.
Whatever she saw, she glided forward. His belly convulsed. His cock lay on his thigh, stiffening with interest.
She came to stand next to him and sank to her knees. With a gaze his heart described as loving, she put two fingers to his lips, chasing his own hand away.
Babe, I can’t utter a word.
Then she moved closer. His brain melted down in the fragrance of her perfume as she reached one arm around his neck and pressed her face to his bare chest.
The warmth of her flowed over him. He shut his eyes. Opened them. This silken body in his arms was really hers, and not some fantasy. She kissed his shoulder, pressed her lips to his sternum. He heard her sniff and knew she fought tears.
That’s when his arms clamped around her and hauled her up to splay her upper body over him. He planted his lips in her hair. Her soft curls. He caressed her back. Sleek flesh and bones. He put one palm over a cheek of her ass and squeezed.
“Come up here, babe. I need all of you.”
Copyright 2010, Cerise DeLand. No duplication without written permission of the author.